Kerry Johnson's Blog, page 4

Noise

“Can you roll up the windows?”

“Yes.” I sighed, wishing the red light would change to green so we could drive away from the young guy in the sporty black car blaring cuss-word music beside us.

It was a beautiful spring day, a recent cold front ushering cooler air over the west coast of Florida. May would soon arrive, packed with bloated 90s baggage and humidity thick as salted butter.

This was the last gentle dose of Florida’s mild winter.

The perfect time for open windows.

Except for the cuss-word music stabbing my ear drums like a dozen metal bobby pins.

I rolled the truck windows up, up, all the way, to block out the ugly sounds.

“Do you know what so-and-so said today in the locker room?” My older son had his nose buried in a book in the back seat but his voice lilted with interest at my reaction.

“No, what?” My shoulders slumped. Cole’s in 6th grade, and even after teaching this age (a lifetime ago), I’m still surprised at how other-worldly middle schoolers are and how colorful their conversations.

Sometimes my parental glasses get smudged with the tears of time, and I realize I’m still viewing my children as three & five-years old, starting kindergarten and learning cursive not curse words, feeling their soft little heads knocking my belly-button in tight-armed, dirty-fingered hugs.

Sigh.

On the other side of the truck, another car slides into packed red light formation, blaring an alternate version of ugly music. I turn up the Joy-FM and grit my teeth.

Noise.

I know our children will eventually hear the sordid details of so-and-so politician’s affair and learn about the many people decapitated by militant extremists in the Middle East. They’ll eventually find out twenty-plus children were murdered at the hands of a disturbed young man in my childhood elementary school.

They’ve heard some of the premier swear words out there, though not from us.

They’ve seen scantily-clad, bone-thin women eight-feet tall on billboards at the mall (don’t get me started, Victoria and your so-not-a-secret Secret).

Keeping them in a bubble is impossible. But we do our best to shelter them from the dark trenches of the world while they’re young, because that’s what God called us to do. And little by little, by God’s grace, they’re learning why we cling to the One we do.

Because the noise is everywhere.

It’s all around us. Political noise, social media noise–tweeting, posting, instagraming, etc.. We’re bombarded with thoughts, sounds, and garbage that fills our minds. Distracts us. Twists our emotions. Breaks our hearts.

As an aspiring author, there’s all sorts of noise from the publishing world. Much of it’s good. Some of it’s disheartening. Occasionally it’s envy-producing, and I fight contentment and trusting God’s timing.

I’m learning to filter out the disheartening, keep my eyes on the One who is the Prize and the reason I write, and soak in the fantastic writing and publishing advice social media outlets do offer.

There is GOOD noise out there. There is GOOD news, too. Jesus. He will redeem what he who is in the world has done. He will right the wrong, and clear out the dark trenches.

The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, than the mighty waves of the sea. (Psalm 93:4)

I know this, and am thankful. Grateful. Ready!

(Side note: It won’t matter who’s president.)

It’s noisy out there.

Roll up the windows to this world. Fill your mind with the Good News, the promise of praise and grace found in His word alone.

Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy–meditate on these things. (Philippians 4:8)

Filed under: Musings Tagged: candidkerry, Christian Authors, God, Good news, Jesus, Noise, Phillipians 4:8, Publishing journey, writing

Gathering Together

Every day, without fail, Sandhill Cranes fly over our house. Even (especially) when I’m half-asleep, smacking the alarm clock again, their honking, distinctive cry overhead is easily recognizable.

Sunrise and sunset, pairs and sometimes trios faithfully make their way from the place where they roost overnight, to nearby neighborhoods, where they walk in their high-stepping, elegant way down roads and sidewalks.

When we take our family walks in the evening, the cranes often fly back over, honking goodnight and soaring overhead with wide gray wings and awkward flight.

Where did they go at night? Where was this elusive place they returned to day in and day out?

I finally discovered the Sandhill Crane camp one evening.

On the way to the grocery store, I took a back road out of our neighborhood, and the golden setting sun pierced the clouds draping over the Gulf of Mexico.

A pair of Sandhill Cranes glided on the evening breeze, circling above a large, marshy field to my left. Ah ha. Three football fields long, the field backed up to woods and was untouched by the construction crews building new houses a mile down the road.

As I drove down past, clusters of red-capped Sandhill Cranes gathered together, greeting each other with loud honks and funny dances. Three or four dozen cranes dotted the marshy field, the sun painting scarecrow bird shadows over the mud and grass.

Together for safety. For companionship. For a reminder of who they are, of who God made them to be.

Two weeks have passed since the Florida Christian Writers Conference, held at picturesque Lake Yale Baptist Conference Center in Leesburg.

Where we writers gathered for safety. For companionship. For a reminder of who we are, of Whose we are, of who God made us to be.

It was my second big writing conference. I attended the intimate Florida Inspirational Writers Retreat last October, and the *ginormous* ACFW conference last September, and in many ways the FCWC helped break through the intimidating fears and concerns I had about larger conferences.

FCWC provided a friendly, laid-back atmosphere where jeans or slacks or skirts were welcome. Where hugs were given and writing craft advice echoed down the halls as often as peals of laughter.

And the keynote speaker? Robert Benson’s gentle, heartfelt words reminded us of the safety, companionship, and security we would find in being who God made us to be and why gathering together was necessary.

Why we must let words live and breathe through us every day.

My absolute favorite part of the Florida Christian Writers Conference?

Praying together with other writers.

Strangers-made-friends through a love of Jesus, writing craft, stories, and dreams of publication.

Heads bent and hands held, praying for peace and God’s will and praising Him who gave us these words before walking into a pitch room lined with all the industry professionals.

“Again I say to you that if two of you agree on earth concerning anything that they ask, it will be done for them by My Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them.” (Matthew 18: 19&20)

Oh, and there was beautiful Gabby, with her lovely, shy smile and powerful sign language song that made the conference and surely made the Father in Heaven smile.

God blessed me with a huge encouragement, one I still can’t quite believe. My name, called twice for the FCWC contest. For Middle Grade and for romance.

I’m so thankful, grateful, full. Filled with God’s mercy on this tedious, amazing, difficult, so-not-solo writing journey.

And I’m learning, from the writers that have come before me and even from the Sandhill Cranes honking overhead, to make sure I’m gathering together with others who love words and love Jesus.

Thank You God, that You give us others to share the burdens and joys in writing and in life. In trials and in accomplishments. May we always give You the glory in our success and reaffirm our trust and faith in You in our failures. Teach us to never give up on this longing You wove into our being when You made us.  

Filed under: Musings Tagged: ACFW, candidkerry, Christian Authors, Christian fiction, Florida Christian writers conference 2016, God, Jesus, Matthew 18:19-20, Trusting God, writing, Writing conference

Time’s Up

“Your roses are dead.”

One of our boys gently pointed to the lovely roses my hubby had brought home the Friday before Valentine’s Day. They leaned heavily against the vase, spread wide and wilted.

Beyond wilted.

“It’s okay. I like them when they’re dead and dried out, too.”

“But the time you had them wasn’t very long.”

I nodded. It was true.

That batch of roses hadn’t lasted very long. One bouquet of roses my hubby had gotten me in the past had lived nearly two weeks; these lavender and white beauties had peaked out after three days and started wilting within five.

They hung limp, crinkly-edged, tired versions of their former self.

Later that night, my hubby and I talked about the short-lived bloom of the roses. And I thought of his beautiful younger sister, who’d stepped into eternity days before, after an awful, brave battle with cancer.

She passed away three months from her thirty-eighth birthday.

And I realized, the fact that the roses only bloomed for a short time doesn’t take away from how beautiful and treasured they were.

The shortness of time–of someone’s life–isn’t what matters.

Corrie ten Boom said it well. “The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.”

You’re missed and thought of, Heather, loved much and wished back. But we’re so glad you’re with Jesus and healed.

***

At the end of 2015, Facebook offered a graphic of your most-used words in posts. Weird. I scoffed at it for a few days, then finally my curiosity got the best of me.

In the middle of the bubble cloud of my most-used words, above ‘God’ and below ‘boys,’ was the massive word TIME.

Huh? Had I really posted about time that often?

I ran the app, or whatever it was, again calculating my most-used Facebook words.

TIME stared back at me. I might’ve flicked the computer screen.

TIME.

That word bothered me. Nagged me. Convicted me, even.

Because I’ve battled a borderline-obsession with time for a long time (ha ha). After all, our lives run parallel to it, so how can we not? I’m too aware how long tasks take, even if I’m not consciously keeping track.

I clock-watch and worry about minutes and hours wasted.

Whether from faithfully watching the clock on the pool deck during my swim team days, or just because that’s how God made me, my awareness of time is a big part of who I am.

Too big, perhaps.

“So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)

And sometimes I get this dumb idea in my head.

That if I’m not using my time perfectly, then God won’t be pleased. If I’m not accomplishing this task or that task in this hour or that hour, or finishing a book by blah-blah date or editing 50k words before Friday, then God’s shaking His head in frustration.

Ready to give up on me and my far-flung writing dreams.

While I logically know that’s not true–that’s not how God works–it can be a daily battle.

Time. It frames our lives, yet shouldn’t define them.

Tomorrow I’m heading off to a writing conference in my home state. Too many clothes are packed, pairs of shoes lined up like invisible people dance the conga in my guest bedroom.

Three days at the Florida Christian Writers Conference–time spent in the presence of other aspiring authors and many veterans, too. My second big conference, after ACFW last fall. I’m excited-nervous, a bit anxious (no idea who my roommate is!), and thrilled to see what God has in store.

I’m praying He’ll use me to bless and encourage others.

Because there are writing prayers on my heart and publishing dreams in my head, and they mix often, creating a soul-filling soup of what God wants me to do and what I long to do.

And I’m choosing to trust the promise that He makes all things beautiful in its time. (Ecc. 3:11)

If you’re in the same boat, floating along the waterway of waiting and watching, trust Him. He is faithful and True.

 

 

 

Filed under: Musings Tagged: #FCWC2016, Author, candidkerry, Dreams, Faith, Florida Christian writers conference 2016, God, Trusting God, writing

Love is as Love Does

 

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.

I wish this post was about happier things. I wish it was about the popular February 14th celebration of romantic love, in which paper and candy hearts and homemade Valentine’s and chocolate kisses and cherubic cartoon characters declare affection for loved ones, friends, and classmates.

I wish.

But it’s not.

Because I can’t stop thinking about that hug.

No, it wasn’t even a hug with my sister-in-law. It was more like a grip, a grip that transcended pain and suffering, a press of body against body and mother’s heart against mother’s heart that doesn’t need words.

It was a grip-glimpse into eternity, into true suffering and even truer grace.

When death is so awful, so close, this hug-grip is life. It’s comfort. It’s love.

So. Back to where I started.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.

How inadequate those paper hearts and chocolate candies seem this year.

Because I’m learning about love in 2016. At thirty-nine, learning more about what exactly this first Corinthians thirteen emotion is when it’s shown with action instead of sentiment.

Not through sappy movies or romantic stories. I’m learning by watching love lived out in service to others.

I’m seeing it lived out through my mother-in-law, who’s tending to her dying daughter and to grandchildren soon motherless. Day after day, blurring into weeks. Caring for and hand-holding and holding up. And we’re all seeing how prayer and grace are buoyant life preservers during the darkest moments a mother, father, and family can face.

I’m seeing it lived out through my faithful Mom toward my Dad, who had serious hip surgery the 5th day of the New Year then dealt with a cracked hip and more difficult physical setbacks only weeks later. Numerous nights in hospital rooms and hours spent with nurses and insurance calls. Love that defends and comforts and cares for.

This is God’s ideal love.

“For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Mark 10:45)

Far above chocolate and candy hearts and red ribbon and even ‘I love you’s’, this serving love–the love Jesus showed–soars close to heaven’s gates. It’s a love that steps outside emotion and serves others for their sake, not for any personal gain.

Because love is as love does.

“Behold what manner of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God.” (1 John 3:1)

*We appreciate your prayers for my sister-in-law and her family as she ends her earthly journey and for healing for my Dad’s hip. God Bless you!*

Filed under: Musings Tagged: 1 Corinthians 13, candidkerry, children, Family, grace, Jesus, Love, serving others, Valentine's Day

Stay in the Light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oooh, a flashlight! Do we get to play with that?”

I grinned and nodded at the curious fourth grader in my Sunday school class.

The black stick grabbed the kids’ attention like a candy bar as I pulled it from my bag. It was my hubby’s ultra-strength, pricey work flashlight, used to inspect the innards of bridges. 

Today it would be used in an illustration for the morning’s lesson.  

“Let’s start the lesson first, then we’ll play with the flashlight.”

Six eager faces lined the Sunday school table, ranging in age from seven to ten. My 9am class was combined 2nd-5th, and this was a lively, attentive group.

Three girls and three boys. My own little Brady Bunch.

Our lesson? 1 John 1:5-10. Verses I’d engraved on my heart as a child.

We read over the scripture.

“This is the message which we have heard from Him and declare to you, that God is light and in Him is no darkness at all. If we say we have fellowship with Him, and walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth. But if we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin” (1:5-7).

The apostle John knew joy because he walked in the light with Jesus (1:4). He wanted that same fellowship and joy for other believers. 

He also knew that the world can not give the joy that God gives.

John’s words remind us that when we’re saved by faith, our sanctification comes from walking in the light–with Jesus, apart from the world, confessing our sin–in order to have right fellowship with God.

Since our classroom had a window and we needed a dark space for the flashlight activity, we headed down the hall to a different room. The 4th and 5th grade class was currently unoccupied, and had no windows except a window on the door.

We filed inside and I shut the door. The kids jumped around like hungry bunnies in a garden. Standing in front of the door window blocked most of the hallway light. 

“This game is called Stay in the Light.” I explained the simple rules to the giddy class. I’d turn the lights off, dropping the room in near-darkness, and they had to stay within the circle of the flashlight’s beam as I moved it around the room.

My hubby’s flashlight had three levels–low, medium, and super bright. We took turns using each level of light during the game. Even I preferred the super bright setting, which put out nearly the same brightness as the overhead lights.

After three rounds of squealing, scurrying, and chair-hopping, I clicked off the flashlight and flipped on the overhead lights.

I turned to Ethan, the oldest in the class. “How were you able to stay in the light?”

“Well, I had to keep my eyes on the light beam at all times.” He answered in his thoughtful southern drawl.

“Exactly. We need to keep our eyes on Jesus. He’s our light beam.”

“Where do we find Jesus?”

“In the Bible.”

I reminded them that less light–less Jesus and less of God’s word–meant more darkness. Even the quietest student nodded excitedly, grinning.  

We headed back to our classroom for snack and prayer. The kids had expelled wiggly energy and the illustration had taken hold. Thank You, Lord.

A couple of days before, I’d grumbled to God about teaching. 

“I’ve done it a while. Can I stop? Just for a while?”

Don’t misunderstand. I truly love teaching these kids. I’ve learned so much about God’s word and experienced beautiful moments where understanding dawns in young eyes and spiritual truths sink deep.

But January was a busy, difficult month for both sides of our family. The burden of illness, surgery, school activities, sick children, and other things felt almost too heavy to bear. I prayed, asking God if it’s just me being a whiner or if He would have me step out of the role of Sunday school teacher I’ve had for a few years.

God’s answer? The  meaningful lesson with the flashlight. One I needed and won’t soon forget. 

Stay in the light, friends. Keep your eyes on Jesus, no matter what.

“Therefore let that abide in you which you heard from the beginning. If what you heard from the beginning abides in you, you also will abide in the Son and in the Father. (1 John 2:24)

 

 

Filed under: Musings Tagged: 1 John 1:5-9, Bible, candidkerry, children, Faith, Flashlight, Flashlights, God, Jesus, Kids, Sunday School, writing

Book Review ~ Undaunted Hope by Jody Hedlund

“In a town mired in darkness, she may shine the light they need.”

Jody Hedlund’s third book in her historical lighthouse series, Beacons of Hope, is the perfect winter read. The story is set partly during the brutal winter of 1871-2 in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and the author weaves a tale of courage, adversity, and love amidst difficult circumstances.

Undaunted Hope follows Tessa Taylor, sister of Caroline Taylor from Hearts Made Whole (#2 in the series). Tessa is a dynamic young woman whose past choices make future paths limited. She’s determined to leave her mistakes behind and begin anew in the small mining town of Eagle Harbor, Michigan.

Tessa arrives in remote Eagle Harbor in early fall, set to take the position of school teacher for the miners’ children. But one bump in the road after another leads her to rely on local lighthouse keeper brothers, Michael and Alex Bjorklund, and reach out to the close-knit mining community.

Despite her determination to steer clear of lighthouses, she ends up caring for the widowed family at Eagle Harbor’s lighthouse.

In Undaunted Hope, Jody crafts humorous dialogue and warm, vibrant chemistry between the main characters. Some of the banter between Tessa and Alex made me laugh out loud.

Tough but tender-hearted Tessa has learned from her past, and she’s just the strong-willed person Eagle Harbor needs to lead them out of a dark place.

I appreciate how Jody’s stories show realistic difficulties faced during the time frame in which her novels are set. The lack of supplies during stark winter months in northern Michigan was eye-opening. Her stories are based on real places, often with notorious figures from the past.

I wanted to squash the villain between my fingers as I read about his dark hold on the citizens of Eagle Harbor.

The never-ending winter and unforgiving landscape of northern Michigan became another character in Undaunted Hope; combined with a detestable villain and a romantic triangle that keeps readers guessing, this story about overcoming evil and trusting God no matter what, kept me turning pages and gnawing my nails.

The Beacons of Hope series provides a fascinating look at the sometimes-difficult lives of lighthouse keepers and their families, as well as the treacherous landscape on which they’re built.

Each book is also filled with sigh-worthy moments between hero and heroine.

Undaunted Hope packs an emotional punch with themes of forgiveness, facing our fears, and relying on God’s strength to leave the past behind.

I highly recommend this series, and look forward to Jody’s next book.

Here are links to find Jody online.

Author Page on Facebook

Twitter

Website

Instagram

Filed under: Musings

Coins & Character

 

“Wow. This place is like the IKEA of coin shows.”

Cole dipped his chin in that keep-it-cool, pre-teen half-nod. His eyes roamed the enormous room, probably the very same one in which the Republican National Convention was held four years ago.

We were at the Florida United Numismatics (FUN) coin show, held in the Tampa Convention Center. 1500 dealers and 15,000 of the most avid collectors graced the never-ending concrete floor.

It was by far the largest venue my eleven-year-old had stepped into yet for his coin collecting hobby. Twice a year we’ve attended a local coin show in an Elk’s Lodge, where mounted deer (Elk) heads stand guard and grinning older gentlemen wave us over for chocolate and free coins.

I sucked in a gulp of pizza-scented air and followed him into the massive room.

Cole’s steps were slow and steady as he perused table after table of Civil War bills, boxes of wheat pennies, Walking Liberty half dollars, and various other coins as innumerable as the stars.

He was looking specifically for Indian Head Cents, in order to complete a portion of his collection.

Unfamiliar face after face looked up, some busy, some bored, a few women but mostly men of varying age, sipping drinks and eating something.

The crowd flowed like a confused ant pile, the noise humming all around.

As we paced the floor and passed table after table, a pang of longing hit for a familiar face–specifically, the friendly coin dealer always in attendance at the smaller shows.

We met Harry and his wife three years ago, and the thoughtful coin dealer faithfully emails reminders a week before each Elk’s Lodge coin show.

Harry has kindly taken Cole under his wing, sharing the in-and-outs of coin collecting, the best handbooks to have, some of his favorite coins, and how to find the best prices.

Pretty much anything Cole wants to know, Harry has answers for.

Though they live over an hour away, Harry and his wife came to our house one rainy day last summer to go over Cole’s budding collection and advise him about what to keep and what to part with. We shared brownies and family stories, and they even rooted me on in my writing endeavors.

Of all the coin dealers Cole has come across, Harry’s the real deal, and we’re blessed to call him and his family friends.

But…that’s not always the case at the coin shows.

Often the dealers will glance at Cole as he approaches, realizing he won’t be making any large purchases. They’ll settle back into whatever they were doing without a second look his way.

Rarely have any been rude, but these gentle brush-offs make me so appreciative of the kindly older gentlemen who see past dollar bills and making a buck to a budding numismatic with fresh enthusiasm–a youngster who shares their love of coins and coin history.

As we made our way down the aisles at the FUN show that day, we came across an older gentleman from Maryland with a well-organized, reasonably-priced collection of Indian Head cents. His face was partly covered in a scruffy Santa beard and his eyes friendly.

He nodded to Cole and pointed out where to look for the Indian Head cents. Cole settled into a chair, eventually choosing two coins he needed for his collection. The dealer was very fair with his prices, since coins are to be sold cheaper to children under eighteen.

We thanked him and moved on. But an hour later, after wandering through display after display, we ended up back at Santa’s booth. He welcomed us with a bushy smile and tired wink.

“This is the coin that started it all for me. And I was about his age when I got it.”

One weathered hand set down a wheat penny in a sealed protective container. I’m by no means a coin expert, but immediately I gasped.

It was a 1955 double struck wheat, which meant it had been hit by the machine two times.  The coin was quite special and certainly worth a great deal more than one cent.

Cole picked it up carefully, eyes widening and mouth shaping into an ‘O’. Santa proceeded to share how his grandfather had given him the coin, along with a handful more, after he’d helped shovel snow from his driveway that cold winter.

A few pennies for a simple task had turned into a lucrative, lifelong hobby.

Worth more value to me were his patient questions and words of encouragement to Cole. He reminded me of Harry–in no hurry, not focused on Number 1, and glad to see the younger generation with an interest in coins.

Cole with his Great-Grandma Johnson in 2015, inspecting her coin collection.

After the Tampa FUN coin show, I was reminded of a verse in Titus about older men. “…that the older men be sober, reverent, temperate, sound in faith, in love, in patience” (2:2).

I’m thankful for Harry and the other coin dealers who’ve given my son a much more important commodity than a good deal on coins–they’ve given him their time and shared their stories and wisdom, and in doing so, have passed on a piece of themselves to the next generation.

Lord, help us do this with our faith and in our lives.

Filed under: Musings Tagged: Coins, Faith, FUN coin show, God, Kids, Titus 2:2

Jesus Wept

The baby Jesus lay on the ground, cold plastic drenched in rainwater tears.

My flip flop caught the sidewalk edge, and I flew forward. I righted myself but couldn’t take my eyes off the little nativity scene bleached by Florida sun and worn by years in my neighbor’s yard.

It was timely.

I hope you and yours had a peaceful, family-filled Christmas break. Ours was nice, though I had a good cry over the break; nothing terrible happened, more a combination of random end-of-the-year factors:

I threw out my lower back doing who-knows-what, and hobbled around the house like Yoda for three days (speaking of, our family saw The Force Awakens and LOVED it–have you seen it?).

We brought home a (vocal) new family member/Christmas present (a juvenile Sun Conure), and though we love Mango, it’s been an adjustment.

Ill-timed hormones (sorry, men reading this).
Little time to write, which tends to bring out my grumpies.

The stress of having people over and keeping the house spic and span throughout the break (I’m unfortunately one of those who struggles with needing a perfectly picked-up house for company).

(Please note this is NOT my house.)

A heart-cracking realization that our boys are 95% past picture books. Our Christmas picture books–a staple each Christmas season, stories I’ve read to the boys over and over since they toddled about in diapers–were left mostly untouched this year. This literary milestone is a shot in the heart for me. *sniff sniff*

More hormones (thank you, patient hubby and extra sleep).
Some big decisions and prayers about my writing that have not yet been answered, or I have to make soon. God is good and I trust His plan completely, but my human impatience takes over.

The day I broke down and let the tears flow, I called my mom. She reminded me it’s okay.

It’s okay to cry when life overwhelms.

Just don’t forget that God sees and understands each tear.

Jesus isn’t a faded plastic figurine. He walked the earth, lived a life fraught with emotional, stressful situations (certainly more than most of us), and He wept. Jesus cried, too.

And now? Now He intercedes for us at the right hand of the Father. He sees, and cares. He cares.

John 11:35 is the shortest verse in the Bible. “Jesus wept.” It’s a petite sentence describing a perfect Savior.

The Son of God cried tears of sympathy and pain. He knew what was to come, but still He hurt for His friends and knew the pain of death this side of the Cross.

Jesus wept.

Matthew Henry notes that, “Christ’s tender sympathy with these afflicted friends, appeared by the troubles of his spirit. In all the afflictions of believers he is afflicted. His concern for them was shown by his kind inquiry after the remains of his deceased friend. Being found in fashion as a man, he acts in the way and manner of the sons of men. It was shown by his tears. He was a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with a feeling of our infirmities.”

While I hope and pray that this long stretch of grace ahead–a fresh New Year–doesn’t bring you bouts of tears, don’t feel alone if you do cry. Jesus wept, too. And He will never leave you or forsake you.

Keep your eyes on Him in 2016, friends.

 

Filed under: Musings Tagged: candidkerry, God, grace, Jesus, Jesus wept, John 11:35, Matthew Henry, Nativity, Nativity set, New Year, Psalm 136:1

The Biggest Little Gift

Frost crackled the window panes, and my toes curled with each step across the cold wood floors in our Connecticut living room. My dad jabbed the crusty, burned out wood from last night’s fire, his mug of coffee steaming on a coaster nearby.

Mom tinkered in the kitchen, doctoring breakfast and making more coffee.

My sister and I scurried past Dad. In the family room, our Christmas tree was lit up despite the early hour, and I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.

It was Christmas morning, my ninth year enjoying tinsel and twinkly lights, and two enormous boxes sat behind the tree.

I glanced at Mindy. My grin grew so big my face felt like it would split. One big box for her, one for me. Climbing over my sister and her strewn-about stocking treasures, I ignored my stocking and reached for the huge gift.

“Kerri Anne” was scrawled across one label; “Melinda Sue” across the other.

Anticipation built as Mom and Dad joined us. We began with the smaller gifts: Breyer horses, books, and board games. A shirt thrown in for good measure. Starchy church clothes from grandparents, outfits we’d only wear once, probably for pictures to send to them.

Finally, it was time.

The huge box–as big as our Golden Retriever Taffy and wrapped meticulously by my engineer dad–beckoned. Mindy and I shredded the wrapping paper and tore the tape. Yanking open the cardboard sides, I struggled to lift the awkward gift out.

A frown touched my lips then spread to my face. What in the world was this?

A large blue pillow filled my lap, all practicality and no pizazz. It was funny-shaped–high in the back and squared off with arm rests on each side.

“It’s a reading pillow,” Dad smiled, sipped his coffee. “You can use it on your bed or the floor.”

I was a bookworm, just like him. But a pillow? This huge, marvelous box held a lumpy pillow that did nothing?

I learned a valuable lesson that day. Bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better with gifts. Now, remembering this precious memory and how I did eventually enjoy and appreciate that comfortable pillow, I’m reminded that size doesn’t matter with God, either.

God’s gifts can’t be measured by yardsticks or compared to earthly trinkets. They’re eternally valuable. After all, His greatest gift–His biggest, small gift–came packaged as a tiny baby.

Jesus.

Immanuel. The Alpha and Omega. Our Deliverer. Cornerstone. Dayspring. The Lamb of God. The great I Am.

Jesus is the biggest little gift we will ever receive, and He fits perfectly in every heart.

 Merry CHRISTmas to you and yours!

 

Filed under: Musings Tagged: candidkerry, Christmas, God's gifts, James 1:17, Jesus, Perfect gifts

Mr. Tarter’s Tree ~ A Christmas Story

I’m excited to share a Christmas story I wrote. These are beloved characters from my Genesis-finalist, young adult/middle grades novel, Round Remembering: Escape to Stone Mountain. I’m currently working on book two, tentatively titled Round Remembering: Into the Citylands.

I love these characters and can’t wait to see where God leads with the books. Until then, please enjoy the story. At the end I include the back cover blurb for Round Remembering: Escape to Stone Mountain.

***

Mr. Tarter’s Tree

 

 

Southern Tennessee

December, 2074

 

The whole world lay hidden beneath a thick coating of flour.

Bradley’s smile tightened into a shiver. No. This was definitely snow.

Quiet enveloped him as he stepped outside. The winter storm had piled snow against the four-story brick building. Behind him, the Falstaff kitchens belched meaty smells and broiler steam, reminders of tonight’s dinner and the breakfast Mr. Tarter was preparing on the other side of the door.

Biscuits and sausage.

Bradley’s mouth watered despite his mostly-full belly.

For Sunday breakfast, the Falstaff kitchen served biscuits slathered with strawberry jelly and plump, spicy sausage. Two each, and sometimes Mr. Tarter snuck him a third.

Air sharp and cold as an icicle pricked his eyes as he trudged toward the greenhouse, his arms wrapped around a bucket of rotting leftovers.

His feet, shoved into an overlarge pair of men’s work boots, sunk into fresh snow. Tiny snowflakes fluttered here and there, chased by the wind’s whimsy, as much leftovers of the snow storm as the foul food in the bucket.

The setting sun pierced the thick forest surrounding Falstaff, sparkling through the sentinel tree line and setting everything off in gold-tipped, icy wonder. A bird called out, high in a tree, the sound edged with loneliness. But the only answering sound was his clumping footsteps and the swish of his thick uniform pants.

His throat tightened, and the strangely familiar longing tingled in his chest again. Or was it just the cold air he sucked in with each step?

As he walked, he pictured the fence Luther droned on and on about. The head-master warned them the fence would kill on contact, hidden just inside the woods lining Falstaff grounds. Every boy knew of the fence’s wire-tipped edges and unpredictable zaps, had heard about the poor boys who’d tried to run, only to be stopped dead in their tracks.

Dead?

Bradley gulped a mouthful of icy air. He skirted the dilapidated gardener’s shed and adjusted his hold on the heavy bucket.

How could mushy carrots and potatoes, wilted broccoli, and rotten apples weigh so much? And the smell. Bradley grimaced. Like the dirty laundry piled high in Falstaff’s basement, the odor wafting from the bucket burned his nose.

One booted foot slid into the other, and he stumbled, pitching forward to both knees.

“Ooof.” Cold dampness soaked through to his skin.

Smashed pinto beans and shiny green grapes spilled out of the bucket, covering the white surface like colorful treasure. Bradley struggled to his feet.

“This tree better be worth it,” he mumbled to the hulking form of a lawn mower sitting still and fierce. Its sharp metal edges were softened by inches of snow.

“Bring these food scraps to greenhouse four, Bradley-boy.” Mr. Tarter had directed minutes earlier. “Use ’em to fertilize the soil for next spring.”

“Tonight?” Bradley had peered through a cracked window pane, at the darkening sky.

“Yes, tonight. There’s a little tree inside, behind the door. Fresh cut, it is. The base’ll fit in this here bucket, once it’s empty.” Mr. Tarter had glanced around the cavernous Falstaff kitchen, making certain they were alone. Of course they were. The head-masters only came into its vast quarters if there was a problem with dinner, and tonight’s ham and beans had been delicious. “Bring it back.”

“The bucket?”

“The tree, child. I need that little tree.”

Bradley trudged on, shivering. Why did Mr. Tarter need a tree on this bitter cold winter night? Last night Luther had gone on and on about the weather during evening assembly.

“Snow’s coming, boys. I feel it in my bones.”

Bradley wasn’t sure the head-master even had any bones in his pudgy arms and legs.

Just in his hands.

His fists surely had something hard in them when they flew at Bradley’s—

A cache of hidden ice sent him to his rump. The half-zipped windbreaker Mr. Tarter had thrown over his shoulders rode up his back, and icy moisture soaked into his rear faster than he could struggle to his feet.

“No wonder Mr. Tarter didn’t wanna’ fetch his own tree.”

Bradley adjusted the bucket of slop then drew one hand back, rubbing the small circle on the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth. The solid metal circle was especially cold today, like it had soaked in the freezing air that chaffed Bradley’s cheeks.

All the boys here had neck circles, but none of the adults. Bradley stepped down so hard his foot slammed into frozen earth. How could that be? Did neck circles fall off when people reached a certain age?

If so, he couldn’t get older fast enough.

As he neared greenhouse four, shadows from the forest stretched out, touching his boots and creeping up his legs. His heart, already pumping hard, slammed against his ribs.

The door creaked open, the silence inside even quieter than outside. Bradley dropped the slop bucket with a thud. A rotting gray potato wiggled on the surface, and his dinner clenched in his stomach.

He glanced up, searching for the floodlight Mr. Tarter said was there. Since the boys worked in the greenhouses during the day, lights weren’t needed.

Sure enough, a string hung over a small green tree lying lopsided against a work shelf piled with gardening tools.

“Ah ha.”

The tree was sparse and small, with uneven branches and a crooked trunk. Why did Mr. Tarter need a tree? Bradley’s stomach revolted again at the idea of slurping pine needles in one of the concoctions Mr. Tarter tried to call soup.

He yanked the string. The light bulb crackled to life. Seconds later a sharp pop dropped him back into semi-darkness.

“Great. Now I have to spread this stuff in the dark?”

He jammed his hands into a pair of floppy gloves hanging over the work shelves, grunting in disgust as layers of old potato and limp broccoli clumped into the soil. Or was that cauliflower?

Light faded quickly, leaving Bradley glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. The gleaming full moon held the darkness at bay while he chucked out the slop.

Bradley dumped the rest of into a plant bed and picked up the homely tree. He plunged its trunk into the slimy bucket, and hurried out of the greenhouse, racing the moon light and biting night air to the kitchen door.

A tall shadow crossed the threshold, bent slightly, arms outstretched. Waiting for him.

Bradley grinned. “Here’s your tree, sir.”

“None o’ that, now. I ain’t no sir.” Mr. Tarter glanced around the yard furtively then yanked Bradley and the tree-in-the-bucket through the door.

The stuffy warmth of the kitchen was stifling. Bradley shrugged off the windbreaker and hung it beside the door.

“Quick, follow me. They be calling for you soon.”

Bradley pressed one finger on the metal circle on his neck, flicking and pressing as they hurried through the kitchens, into Mr. Tarter’s private room.

Shaped like a rectangle and not very large, Mr. Tarter’s bedroom had a twin bed no bigger than Bradley’s cot on fourth level Halo Block. Two small wood shelves leaned on opposite walls. Bradley glanced longingly at the shelves. They were filled with worn books and falling-apart picture pages.

Magazines, Mr. Tarter called them.

“You’re keeping the tree in here?”

“Sho’ am. They won’t let me put it nowhere out there.”

“Because it’s unsanitary, like the robin?”

Bradley had found a baby robin under a planter in the greenhouse at summer’s end. Mr. Tarter had hidden the little bird, nursed it until its bent wing wasn’t bent anymore, but kept it in his room because he thought its germs would get in the food. Unsanitary, he told Bradley, though Bradley knew he’d cared for the dainty bird, too.

“Not cuz it unsanitary. The tree here cuz they don’t want me having it at all. It ain’t allowed no more.”

Bradley leaned over, running a finger across the little pine’s soft and prickly branches. The tree was at least a foot shorter than him. Where had Mr. Tarter gotten it? Why did he want a tree in his room? Shoes heaped in one corner, and folded laundry–lots of white aprons and brown uniform pants–filled up the other. Boxes with canned food were stored in corners, meals to come.

It seemed crowded enough.

“This here’s my Christmas tree. Watch, now. Watch this.” Mr. Tarter disappeared into the kitchen, returning in half a minute with sloshing liquid in a mason jar. “This good for now.” He poured the water into the bucket, adjusted the tree–the Christmas tree–as straight as it would go then leaned back with a smile.

“Time for ornee-ments.”

“Orna-what?”

“Ornaments.” Mr. Tarter’s brown lips shaped around each sound carefully. He grabbed a small container high on one of the bookshelves. His paper clip collection? The tiny silver holders filled his broad hand.

His mismatched eyes–one dark, one blinded to a silvery blue–gleamed. “Come now, help me decorate. Like this.” He opened the paper clip and slid it over a branch.

Then another, and another. Needles dropped to the floor, but still they spent careful, quiet moments lining each branch with paper clips.

Bradley cocked his head. “Why do you hang—

“Wait now. Patience, Bradley-boy. I got one more thing.”

Mr. Tarter’s knees cracked when he squatted, fumbling with the flat, clear container that held all his personal items under his bed. He stood with a long grunt then turned.

His large, gentle hands—adult hands that had stroked Bradley’s back with care instead of cruelty—held something shiny yellow and pointed in their grasp.

Bradley took a step back, his breath hitching in his chest. The shiny object was the same color as the mysterious yellow orb hidden in his square on Halo Block, four stories above.

“Look here. My mamma’s star. Thing’s older than Methuselah.”

“Who’s Methus—

“Here, hold this.” Mr. Tarter placed the object in Bradley’s shaky hand then scooted around the tree. He flicked his fingers open, asking for it back. “It’s a star…you ever see a star up close? Pretend star, mind you.” He chuckled, but then his face tightened into a frustrated frown. “Guess you won’t remember if you did, after all them bad men done to you. No matter. Ain’t no one but the Creator can touch them stars up there.” He pointed to the ceiling, but Bradley knew he meant the sky.

Creator? “The star goes on the top? I don’t think that little branch can hold it.”

Mr. Tarter pinched his lips, grumbling under his breath as he balanced the sparkly star atop the tree. The top branch leaned from one side to the other, slowly righting itself until it balanced perfectly above the tree.

Bradley’s eyes widened.

“Now watch this, Bradley-boy.”

Mr. Tarter licked his lips, flicking off the single lamp that sat on the bookshelf. His motion cast the room in near darkness.

Suddenly a single light—held by Mr. Tarter’s hand—shone near the tree. His flashlight? The ugly little tree, covered in dull gray paper clips and topped with the shiny, cracked star, glowed. Dozens of sparkling silver points dotted it from trunk to star-tipped top.

Golden light showered every crevice and branch, creating a lump in Bradley’s throat he couldn’t swallow.

“This tree’s about Jehovah. God gave us Jehovah and He put him on a tree. For us. You know that?”

Bradley’s shoulders sagged. He swiped at his neck circle, pressing hard. Mr. Tarter talked about Jehovah a lot, and because he didn’t want to hurt the cook’s feelings, he’d nod and listen. Sometimes even ask questions.

But Jehovah on a tree? That’s why Mr. Tarter wanted the little tree in his bedroom?

“This tree is ’bout Jehovah’s bein’ on earth. He came as a Babe, left as a man, but was always Jehovah. You know that?”

That was Bradley’s cue to nod. He did, twice, then dropped to the edge of Mr. Tarter’s creaky bed. “This little tree reminds you of Jehovah?”

“Oh Bradley-boy, this tree remind me of the greatest gift we ever got. Jehovah Shammah. The Lord is present. He came, He came, Bradley-boy! This is Christmas.”

Mr. Tarter bobbed his head and turned his spindly legs, dancing in a circle. His long body created funny shadows against the wall. Bradley jumped up, skipping around Mr. Tarter until he was dizzy.

A smiled pulled his cheeks up as they hopped around, Mr. Tarter whistling a lively tune that made Bradley’s feet jiggle and his heart expand.

Mr. Tarter stopped abruptly, grabbing Bradley’s hands in his larger ones. His chest rose and fell rapidly under his work shirt.

“They try, they try to take Christmas away. But they can’t.” The old cook shook his head roughly. “They can’t take what’s in the heart. Jehovah’s here, and He was here, and we keepin’ Christmas right here.”

One long, dark finger pointed at his chest first then reached toward Bradley’s.

“We keep him here best. You remember that.”

A Christmas tree for Jehovah. Bradley inhaled until he felt like he sucked up all the air in the room.

“You best get back to your square ‘for they notice you still gone.”

He nodded, his body wilting at the thought of his dark, lonely square.

“Jehovah bless you ’til we meet again.”

“Tomorrow?” Bradley never bothered to hide his eagerness about seeing Mr. Tarter.

“Tomorrow it is, Bradley-boy.”

The night bell rang, its sharp clang magnified by the kitchen’s appliances. Bradley clutched his arms to his chest, his neck circle pulsing with the strange warmth that always came with the bell’s call.

“Thank you for sharing your Christmas tree.”

“You welcome, but it ain’t mine. It’s Jehovah’s.” Mr. Tarter’s gap-toothed smile warmed Bradley as much as the humming ovens baking biscuits for tomorrow’s breakfast. “Jus’ don’t forget that. Jehovah came for us. That what Christmas is, my boy.”

Bradley stepped backward, out of Mr. Tarter’s bedroom, his feet dragging and gaze lingering on the sparkling tree. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this Christmas tree.”

***

Round Remembering: Escape to Stone Mountain

Bradley Harrison can’t remember who he is or where he came from. All he can remember are two years of locked bars and grueling work at Camp Falstaff, where he and hundreds of other boys live. They’re each marked with a small metal neck circle and no memory of the past.

But eleven-year-old Bradley possesses two secret mementos: a faded photograph of a smiling man and woman, and a small golden orb that strengthens his hazy memories when he holds it close.

And unlike the other boys at Falstaff, Bradley still remembers his last name.

The morning he learns he’s a Rememberer—one of the rare few whose short-term memory won’t reset—he also realizes his life is in grave danger.

During the chaos of a fire alarm, Bradley escapes into the wilderness. He’s determined to find the people in the photograph and outrun the guards on his trail. Too bad Delphious—the head overseer at Falstaff—won’t let him go that easily.

Unexpected friends—a scared girl taken from her family, and a free-spirited teenager— join his dangerous journey to discover what’s inside the orb and why Bradley’s memories are worth more than his life.

 

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Musings